


Manifest Content

by LeyliaWolfe



Category: Doom (2005)
Genre: Doom, movieverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeyliaWolfe/pseuds/LeyliaWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had to go to the one place he didn't want to be, but he'd be damned if they left him behind. RRTS is sent to Olduvai and the Nightmare ensues, all Hell breaks loose. </p>
<p>Then John wakes up.<br/>There's a face in his head that shouldn't be there, and the Demons of Mars have followed him back to Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifest Content

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this a few years back, and it is, as of yet, incomplete. Consider this something like a sequel to movie. Since it's old the writing is bit fumbling and thick. I've try to hammer it out as I go.  
> Though the movie didn't do the game justice, I enjoyed it nonetheless. We'll just pretend it isn't actually DooM.  
> A number of OC characters are involved here as part of the new plot.

**Chapter 1**

**Something's Different... This Time?**

 

The rec-room overflowed with the noises of boredom and impatience. An old battered sound system howled a popular rock song with an over paid guitarist. The guts of citrus splattered across the open center walkway as the metal baseball bat obliterated the orange fruit that was under-handed its way. In the corner a lanky young boy, if he could be called anything else, lay on his bed reading a comic book, but for all his languid state, his body was sheepish and tense. 

A black man with a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, lounged on a bunk and hooted with joy at the squawks and childish explosions that shrieked from the out-dated hand-held video game. Scattered duffel bags decorated the floor throughout the room.

A sleazy man with greasy blond hair, plastered to his scalp with gel, and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt paced back and forth. Muttering under his breath, he glanced at the wrist watch he held in his hand. His impatience at its brink he slapped the watch with a loud clang on the rail of his bunk and bit out and angry comment.

“This is bullshit,” He snarled, “Six months without a weekend, and the damn transport’s five minutes late. That's five minutes R&R I ain’t never gonna get back. ”

The black man snorted, and glanced briefly away from his game “Relax Portman, besides what you doing over leave that’s got you in such a hurry.”

The blond man sniggered “Second I get off that transport I’m heading straight down to El Honto and locking myself in a motel room with a bottle of tequila and three she-boys.” He cackled and looked quite satisfied in his Hawaiian shirt and sock-less white loafers.

“You sick man.”

Another orange whistled past Portman, just barely missing his head. He jumped away on reflex, and the orange struck the hand of an older, weathered man who sat quietly in his own bunk. He snapped closed a little black book embellished with a thin gold cross, and tore into the outer sheath of the battered fruit.

“Shut up Portman.” His voice rumbled dangerously “I’m sick of your filth.”

Portman just sneered and edged away. Yet another orange smashed into the locker next to the man playing his game. Gregory Schofield was his name, though more commonly known as Duke in his current occupation. He flinched and muffled a startled curse as chunks of orange and juice rained on him. He glared at the batter and his pitcher. The stout and ever enigmatic Asian man Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takahashi, or more simply Mac, watched him with a blank, well rehearsed, look of innocence. A look perfected by a childhood of structured culture, and intellectual grooming, which he would in the end throw away for a life as a soldier. The batter, an enormous black man with a broad face and large nose merely shrugged off the glare from his childhood friend. Eventually Duke contented himself with brushing the fruit carnage off of his lap and game screen.

Just as things settled back to the buzz of restrained boredom, there was a metallic snap followed immediately by a loud crash from down the hall that shook the walls, causing the battered stereo to cut out which allowed for a loud curse to echo unhindered into the room. The tense boy in the corner jumped to his feet-- startled.

“Relax kid.” came a gruff voice. A man in his late twenties with welsh black hair and brilliant blue eyes was seated at a bench in front of a brushed stainless steel table cleaning a standard issue sniper rifle. “Wolfe’s just snapped the weight rack on that cheap ass bench again.”

“Oh…” The young man mumbled, blushing furiously. Mark Dantalian, the newest and youngest edition to their ragtag band of merry men. Fresh off the parade ground just in time for leave. Mark assumed he’d have to wait another six months before he’d get his first mission and official call sign, but the RRTS “Hellfighters” could be called on at anytime the powers that be needed a job done. A job done quick and oftentimes, dirty.

With the radio still silenced, the sound of heavy footsteps approached down the hallway from the source of the disturbance.

A tall red-headed woman swept into the room and snatched the MP3 player from the doc on the stereo. Her hands were wrapped and she dripped with sweat. She stuffed the music player into one of the duffel bags, clearly hers, and snatched a towel from a shelf, vigorously wiping away the sweat while she twisted and popped her neck. She yawned massively, cracking her jaw and flashing a set of straight white teeth.

“What no song of the day Wolfe?” Duke chided amiably looking up from his game again.

She paused to look at him momentarily. Her expression was blank and stony. Without a word, she spun on her heal heading back down the hallway. On her way out, she stopped by the sound system, hitting several buttons before hammering her fist down on to the ancient piece of crap. Finally it sprang back to life sputtering out an over played song on the local FM station.

She disappeared down the hallway.

“… Ok…” Duke rolled his eyes, and once more turned back to his game.

Footsteps on grated steel pulled everyone’s attention to the top of the stairs off to one side of the Rec-room, leading to the office of their Commanding Officer. Gunnery Sergeant Asher “Sarge” Mahonin, tanned, heavily muscled, and intimidating, was standing imposingly at the top. An ominous look on his face.

“Looks like leave's just been cancelled boys.”

A chorus of muffled groans erupted from the throats of the Unit 6 RRTS marines.

Duke stifled a curse and stuffed his game into his, now unnecessary, duffel.

“You gotta a problem with that Duke?” Sarge demanded menacingly, catching the poorly staunched derogative.

“Me Sarge? Hell no I love my job.” Duke replied stiffly, barely keeping the frustration and sarcasm from edging his voice.

Sarge nodded, appeased once more. “Suit up gentlemen. We leave in five.” He directed his attention at Mark who was hesitating to move with everyone else “You too. Welcome to the Rapid Response Tactical Squad, double R-T-S.” The young man nodded and bounced away after the rest of his new squad.

They filed from the room to their separate lockers in the hall. The dark haired man was last to rise from his seat at the stainless-steel table . Sarge stopped him.

“Not this time John. You’re staying behind.”

‘John’ stared at him in disbelief “You’re bullshitting me.”

Sarge shook his head “No Bullshit. Look, just take the leave... We’re going to Olduvai.”

There was pause at the mention of the Mars Scientific Research Center.

“Is that an order?”

“It’s a recommendation.”

John nodded in understanding. He snatched up the rifle and slapped the cartridge in and brushed past his C.O. a storm of conflict roiling beneath.

* * *

 

Passing the rest of the unit, Sarge headed for the room they used as a temporary gym of sorts. It was stuffed with weights and benches, an old set of barbells and punching bag. One of the benches was sporting a broken weight rack that looked as though it’d been crudely re-welded one too many times. The matching bar for the bench was lying on the slightly dented metal floor as a result of its recent fall.

Standing facing away from the door, Corporal Alexandria “The Fang” Wolfe held her arm straight away from her side, holding up a weight, stamped with a bold ‘25’ on the side, and slowly lowered it. When her arm was flat to her side she raised it again and repeated the motion. Muscles in her shoulders and back flexed tightly under the tanned and wind-burned skin. Sweat darkened her fiery hair, she kept her eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

“Wolfe.”

“Yes Sarge.” She said between controlled breaths.

“You can hear from down the hall, leave’s cancelled, suit up now.”

She put the weight down on the rack “Sorry sir,” she drawled calmly “Wasn’t aware I was going to be allowed on anymore missions till the hearing went through.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me Wolfe, go suit up before I shove your sorry ass in that damn vest myself.” The large man snapped, his eyes flashed dangerously.

“Yes sir.” She said, sliding past into the hallway, despite her outward deference, her back was ridged, exuding defiance and insolence.

* * *

 

Five minutes later they were on the tarmac of the Armed Forces Base in Twenty-nine Palms California, heads turned down against the wind from the rotors of their assault and transport helicopter.

Fully suited they were an intimidating group. Black from head to toe in standard issues boot and black cargo pants. Long-sleeved black jackets and Kevlar vests, body armor consisting of Kevlar plates tucked into the collar and shoulders. They piled into the helicopter, finding their individually issued weapons on the racks beside their cramped seats.

As they picked up their assault rifles, a female voice purred out their IDs when they gripped the customized palm reader, arming the weapon.

The weathered soldier with his little black book, Corporal Eric Fantom, snatched up his first.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Goat.”

The massive black man picked up his next, a large chain gun draped in belts of ammunition.

Sergeant Roark Gannon

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Destroyer.” He nodded to himself, and his face split into a broad grin.

“Daddy’s home.”

Corporal Dean Portman.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Portman.”

Tech Specialist Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takahashi.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Mac.”

Sergeant Gregory Schofield.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Duke.”

“Say my name baby.” He said with a smile, admiring the rifle.

Corporal Alexandria Wolfe.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Fang.”

Private Mark Dantalian.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. The Kid.”

“The Kid?” he griped and flopped into his seat with a sigh, the gun hanging loosely from his hands.

Gunnery Sergeant Asher Mahonin.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Sarge.”

The C.O. turned and addressed his team and the pilot. The doors began to slide shut.

“Alright men let’s get this sh--,”

He cut off as hand caught the door.

Fully suited, Staff Sergeant John Grimm, climbed silently into the helicopter and took his own assault rifle from the rack.

“RRTS Special Ops Clearance Verified. Handle I.D. Reaper.”

He took his seat. Sarge continued as though nothing had changed.

In the lull of conversation, Portman leaned toward Kid and beckoned him closer, his face twisted by a yellow-toothed grin.

“You know couple days ago I asked the Sarge for some pussy. The next day he brought you on.”

Kid snapped back, a look of shock crossing his face and Portman cackled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Reaper shifted his gun threateningly.

“Don’t give me an excuse Portman.” He warned “No one will miss you.”

Portman sneered at the higher ranking man for few moments before giving a snort and leaning back in his seat. Several silent seconds passed before Kid’s curiosity worked against his better judgment. He leaned toward Portman, and in a hushed voice said;

“If you wanted… you know… why not…” He finished his statement by twitching his chin toward the quiet red-head, and the only female any of the unit had seen in six months.

Portman turned his head lazily to leer at the woman seated a few spots over in the corner of the fuselage. Catching her icy glare he turned back with a knowing smirk, and leaned forward as he spoke.

“How’s ‘bout you go try tappin' that ass. And if you come back with your balls still attached, let me know. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl.”

Having not considered the idea, Kid glanced tentatively over in the Fang’s direction. She lounged with a leg up against the metal frame of the helicopter, her rifle laid across her chest. When they made eye contact, he met a pair of steely grey eyes that narrowed dangerously in his direction.

He blanched and looked away hurriedly, heeding the unspoken warning, and praying Fang never found any excuse to point that rifle in his general direction.

* * *

 

The helicopter took off with the rotors screaming for purchase in the air. It whooshed over the barren desert, breaking the silence of the night with the heavy thumping of its motorized blades.

On board Sarge launched into an en transit briefing over the mission. Calling it a quarantine and retrieval misson, he began with a video sent from the UAC. The video showed and old, balding scientist who sagged with stress and sweat. His eyes fluttered and blink nervously as he spoke into the camera. Behind him crashing sounds and screams came from the only visible door.

“This is Doctor Carmack at Classified Research, Olduvai. ID 6627.” His voice shook with fear. A snarl erupted from behind the door at his back, accompanied by a massive bang. The metal shrieked in protest.

We have a level five breach. Implement quarantine procedures now, I repeat, implement quarantine procedures now!”

There was a thunderous crash and the screen went black; Sarge removed the disk from the console, and turned to his team, looking over them. He brimmed with unspoken confidence, some would say reminiscing arrogance.

“UAC has shut down the facility at Olduvai. We need to locate the team, eliminate, and secure the facility.”

Kid inquired about the threat, Duke ready responded with a sarcastic remark that turned the young PFC's ears a bright shade of crimson.

Done with his briefing, Sarge took his seat across from Reaper. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“How long has it been?”

Reaper waited before responding, scrutinizing his C.O.’s cause for asking.

Having found no other ulterior motive for the question, he obliged an answer.

“Ten years.”

“You sure she’s even still up there?”

Without pausing to consider, the brooding man nodded “Yeah…”

“I guess you gotta face your demons sometime.”

 

* * *

 


End file.
